This California Live Oak at the end
of my block looks like a couple
mid-fuck: ankles, thighs, groin, hips
entwined, forming a single trunk,

erupting into two separate bodies:
a damsel tilted back, the green breeze
of her hair, fingers gripping the triceps
of a lad thrusting, his rainbow spine

in a perpetual state of timber. Most trees
are only visible from the knees up,
calves unraveled in dirt, shoes fallen off.
Not this one. I keep a tiny piece

of its bark under my pillow. I stuff
its leaves in my underpants. I sleep
naked in its branches, hoping to wake
with its initials carved into my shoulder.